The Truth About Forever
by redfantasyfox
Summary: It's been three years since "The Colour of Magic," three years since Bilbo Baggins and Thorin Oakenshield agreed to try again. A lot has happened in that time, a lot has changed, but for Bilbo, all that defines him is his accident. In the wake of this tragedy, Thorin is left to pick up the pieces of their broken dreams, and despite his best effort, forever may just escape them both
1. We All Fall Down

Thorin paces back and forth in his living room, night's silent fingers draping across his face like waves an ocean shore. Somewhere, somewhere deep inside his house, he can hear his grandfather clock tolling, its ominous call reverberating through his chest. Stopping at the mouth of his stairwell, the dark space above the twisting steps weighing down on him, he listens to the melodic chanting, begging for it to stop. The silence, however, serves only to remind him that it's nearly midnight, and the pain of that realization stabs him like a stake to the heart.

Taking out his phone, Thorin dials his boyfriend's number, listening to the line ring insistently before it goes to voice-mail. He hesitates as the little recorded message plays, but the moment the beep comes he finds he has nothing to say, and just hangs up.

Twenty minutes later, he sends a text. _Laugh_, he writes, _if you want, but I'm starting to get really worried. Call me._

As he waits in the darkness for a response, Thorin replays that morning in his head. Driving Bilbo to the train station, helping him get his luggage out of the trunk. "You'll let me know when you get in?" He had asked, refusing to let his smile waver at the sight of Bilbo heading off into the blue. "Just so I know?"

Bilbo had laughed, but the sound was bashful, almost embarrassed "I will. You know I will."

Like miniature ghosts, those words are now, haunting Thorin's every thought. Part of him hopes Bilbo has just forgotten, maybe gotten distracted by the family he's gone to stay with, and in the morning, when their daily check-ins are due, he will apologize with the lightest of chuckles, whispers of a thousand untold stories already on his lips. But the other part of Thorin, the part of him that demands he wait just a little bit longer, can feel the string pulled between their hearts growing taunt, teetering on the verge of snapping. What if Bilbo's in trouble somewhere? What if something's happened? The mere thought of harm coming to his dearest friend is enough to nearly cripple him.

Thorin calls again. And again and again and again. He begins to leave increasingly desperate voice-mails, inching slowly more and more towards a place he doesn't want to be. He sends another few texts, spacing them out between the passing hours, and then calls again.

Still, there is nothing.

Two hours pass. Three. Four. Morning is just about to break on the horizon, the first few rays already escaping from the grips of night. Thorin walks to his car, starts the ignition, gets out, gets back in, gets out, and then returns to his living room. Where would he even go? Where would he look? Where would he even begin?

Turning to fall back into his repetitive path, he's startled to see Fili still awake, watching television on the couch across the room. His dark eyes are out of focus, his fingers hardly even grasping the remote, but every now and again he re-positions the blanket over Kili's slightly smaller frame, most of which is draped across his legs. Thorin manages to catch his eye and gesture to the stairwell with his head, but Fili merely yawns and mumbles something Thorin doesn't catch. Coming up beside his nephew, he eases onto the cushions and gently takes the remote from his hand.

"I'm sorry I've kept you up," he whispers, his voice as quiet as he can make it. For a split second Fili is a teenager again, and Thorin has to bite down the urge to parent him and send him to bed.

"S'alright," Fili murmurs, smiling slightly as he shifts in place. "You worry too much, you know."

Thorin bows his head. "Better I worry at all."

As he rests for a few minutes, staring off into space, he watches as the room slowly begins to brighten. Following the feeble streams of light, Thorin's eyes are drawn to the collection of picture-frames that stand like sentinels on the walls all around him, displaying dozens of stolen moments from all the years of his life. The largest of them, though no bigger than a sheet of Bristol board, is one of him and his nephews at the beach, Kili no older than twelve.

"Uncle," he had asked Thorin, patting down his little fort in the sand with a plastic shovel. "Are you happy?"

Thorin doesn't remember his answer, but whatever it had been, it could hardly have been the truth. _I was lonely_, Thorin echoes through the head of his twenty-something year old self, _and tired. Maybe even a little broken. But you needed me to be strong, so that was all I ever let you see._

Thorin returns to his pacing. The floor creaks underneath his feet as he walks, the carpet catches on his toes and bunches in odd places. He draws himself a glass of water, but it overflows at the corners of his lips and drips down his chin. His mortar skills are beginning to fail, and soon even the stairwell looks appealing, just to sit down for a moment, maybe even to rest his eyes…

Fili's voice floats in from the living room. "Just go to bed, dad. I'm sure Bilbo is fine."

Turning, Thorin studies his nephew's face, waiting for him to correct himself, waiting for him to realize his slip of tongue, but instead he merely nods off, closing his eyes as if the sight of him doing so would be enough to send Thorin to his room. In all honestly, it almost is, and Thorin makes it halfway between the floors before giving up and returning to the couch.

Despite his best effort, he must have fallen asleep, because suddenly he's being shaken awake by a very nervous Kili, who's waving at the tv with the remote.

"Uncle," he says. It's all he says. His eyes betray the rest.

Even in his sleep-impaired state, Thorin can make out enough of the images flashing across the news to understand there's been an accident. A man in a striped tie is talking loudly at the camera, turning every now and again back to the river, as if to put emphasis on his words.

Thorin only catches snit-bits. Paramedics. A boat. The Brandywine. Critical condition. He doesn't understand at first, can't connect the dots quite right, but when his phone rings he nearly flies to it, knowing even before the person speaks that his worry has not been without cause.

"Thorin Oakenshield," a female voice says, her words piercing into his mind as if she was speaking directly into his head. "There isn't much time." Thorin turns to the television, searching for what he can't have known to find, spotting a lady in the background of the shot, a Bluetooth in her ear.

"Bilbo," Thorin says.

The woman doesn't answer. Instead she says, "You must hurry." And then she's gone, and the line is dead.


	2. Black and White

Bilbo wakes in the hospital alone, his room silent as a grave. At first he is aware of nothing; he is conscious, he is breathing, but all his senses have failed him. There is no sound, no smell, no taste, no feeling, until, at last, that is the first to return to him. Within seconds a heaviness settles on his limbs, the weak pitter-patter of his dying heart reaches his ears, and the husky grating of his breath through his throat rubs him raw. Then, without warning, a gentle white glow filters in through the windows, splashing the world with a distinctly colourless light. Where it touches his skin he feels no warmth, only a shocking coldness, but unable to move more than his head, he is forced to endure the agony of the bitter chill.

Slowly, very slowly, it passes, leaving Bilbo exhausted and drained. He begins to hear a distant ringing, but his ears are stuffed with an incredible pressure, and even the machine at his bedside, rising out of the shapeless vista, is quiet despite every reason not to be. Bilbo tries to turn his head, to glance for a door, a way out, a friendly face, but the effort it takes is enormous, and he soon gives up.

When sleep eventually comes for him, he slips off into the darkness without a word.

/

There is an echoing whisper, a soft voice that rises and falls, murmuring something that Bilbo cannot catch, even once it tugs him awake. He keeps still, letting the sound draw close and than back away, almost forming words, almost making sense, and then slipping into the wind. He senses he should know to whom the voice belongs, know it better than any other, but names are lost to him, even his own.

Bilbo opens his eyes, but instead of whiteness, instead of a blinding purity, the world is as dark as his dreams. He gropes out with his hands, reaching as if for a light switch, but he can feel nothing except...is that water?

All at once, Bilbo is drowning again. The darkness is the bottom of the river, surging all around him, dragging him down, down, down, towards the sand and silt at the bottom. He feels his legs strike sharp stone, feels the air squeezing from his lungs, tastes the freezing, bitter water, slithering down his throat, coursing through his body.

Did he scream? He can't remember.

When sleep comes for him again, he gives in to it willingly, almost hastily so. Anything is better than pain.

/

Bilbo does not wake this time. He just...becomes aware of a floating sensation, like he's falling, but towards a destination that is not yet in sight. And the world, the world feels lethargic, sluggish, like someone turned down the speed of a song by five hundred times. Memories flash before him, just out of reach, memories of fancy dinners and elaborate vacations and beautiful sunrises, but soon they are engulfed in the nothingness, promising never to return.

Bilbo feels nothing at the thought of losing them, for once they are gone, he forgets they ever existed.

There is no time here. No questions, no answers. Bilbo simply falls.

/

Voices.

There...there are voices.

Stilling his breathing, Bilbo tries to listen to the mumbled words. Sound is so alien to him, in his worlds of black and white, that even these speakers, their voices heavy with strain, agony, and frustration, are melodic and beautiful. He wants to call out to them, let his own voice break free from the cage where it has been forgotten and abandoned, but it will not come, so he is left only to listen. As he does, a great weight presses down across his body, locking him in place. The message is clear: he will not wake, not now.

Not yet.

The first to speak is a young man, but despite his age, the tremor in his voice reveals a deep understanding of the world. What is it that he can see? Who is it that he loves, who is it that he's watching fall apart? "Uncle," he whispers, again and again, chocking on his words even as they form on his lips. "Please, you need to rest, you need to eat, you need to...to not do this. You're killing yourself."

There's a chuckle. Or is that a sigh? The sounds are mingling now, flickering like a flame, sometimes strong, sometimes on the verge of wasting away.

Another voice speaks now, another man, though perhaps even younger than the first. "Caffeine isn't the answer. You've already had four today, I'm not buying you another."

"We won't leave him," adds the first voice. "You know we won't. We'll be right here, I'll even sit right where you're sitting. If he wakes, you'll be the first to know."

There's hesitation now, a long, drawn out pause. Finally, instead of an answer, Bilbo feels someone take his hand. By reflex he tries to pull away-who is this? A doctor? A friend of his? The grip is so careful, so cautious, Bilbo may as well be made of glass for all the difference it would make. _Who are you? _he asks it, shivering at the circles the person is tracing on his skin with their thumb. _Who-_

But then everything is gone.

Alone again, slowly slipping, slowly slipping back into that place of emptiness, Bilbo, for the first time, tries to fight. _Please no,_ he begs, _send me back. I don't want to be here. I want to go home._

If the darkness hears him, it ignores him. Bilbo is dragged away, the light dying from his eyes once more.

/

It's to the soft, sweet whisperings of his own name that Bilbo finally feels himself resurface. His consciousness gasps for breath, coughing with dust, choking on the lingering cold, but he cannot deny it-he is free. The darkness is gone.

Colour, light, and warmth flood him from every which way, flushing his cheeks, flickering his eyelids, twitching his fingers. Instantly he is aware of everything around him, the smell of his new sheets, the down in the pillow under his head, the needle in his arm, the bandages on his chest. The world is alive, moving even as he opens his eyes, even as his eyes clear. There's a flurry of motion, of people jumping to their feet, of things clattering to the floor, of papers flying from a folder into the air. And there, right beside him, still cradling his hand, is _him_.

Their eyes meet.

For a split second Bilbo does nothing but stare, memorizing every line of him, every curve. He sweeps in the slightly wild look to his face, the dark and unchecked beard growing in along his prominent jaw, the glacier blue eyes, the short raven hair framing his brow. Bilbo runs his gaze along his hands, to the rings on his right index finger, the Rolex watch on his wrist, the rolled cuffs of his jacket. All of it, all of it together, makes him the most strikingly beautiful person Bilbo has ever seen, and maybe ever will.

Unfortunately, though, that did not change one very harrowing fact.

This man is a complete and utter stranger to him.


	3. All I Have

Thorin's breath catches in his throat. The air is cold, jagged, and lifeless, like the word's half-formed on this tongue, haphazard as a construction site. His eyes search Bilbo's face for the familiarity his mind assures him still exists, of the curly hair that wisps around his ears, of the soft brown circling his irises, of the slight, gentle curves of his lips. Everything about him appears to be the same, his smell, his voice, his touch, his aura, but somehow there is no recognition in his expression, only confusion. For a long moment more they are both paralyzed, and no one in the room can think to speak.

All at once, Bilbo's hand, tucked neatly within his own, carefully pulls away, and the absence of it strikes Thorin like a bullet to the kidney; were there room behind him to back up, perhaps he would have staggered.

"Please," Bilbo whispers, his eyes sad. "I'm sure there's been some mistake. You'll forgive me for saying, but I doubt I could ever forget a face like your's. Maybe you're in the wrong room?"

Thorin cannot think of anything to say, only to continue staring, like the connection between them, the connection he still feels tying their hearts together, will eventually just spring back into place and set everything in the world right again. But staring, just staring, quickly creates it's own problems, as Bilbo fidgets under the intensity of Thorin's gaze, trying desperately to fill the space between them with something other than tension.

"Is my doctor around?" He asks, lacing his own fingers together and watching them interlock like it's the strangest thing he's ever seen. "I'd like to ask him about my condition, if I could. I…honestly, I haven't the faintest idea why I'm here."

Like those words were an ice pick, shattering the surface of a frozen pond, noise and movement collide back into the room. One man, still collecting his papers which had been scattered on the floor, rises hurriedly and comes to Bilbo's side, introducing himself and the hospital. Two nurses, whom had appeared at some point during the initial chaos, slip back off into the hallway in search of medical supplies and food to tend to their now very conscious patient. That left Thorin and his nephews standing awkwardly in the background of the small—suddenly much too small—emergency room, questions they all wanted to ask but were too afraid to voice lingering on the tips of their tongues.

Thorin can't remember which of the two of them lead him into the corridor, but Fili's is the face he registers first, helping him into a chair near the waiting area across from the nurses' station. He's asking something, something about Bilbo, maybe even giving assurances, but Thorin can't hear a thing over the buzzing that's quickly building in the back of his head, filling his thoughts with doubt and fear and depression. He knows he should feel relieved, but for the moment all he can feel is the pull of Bilbo's hand out of his own, and the heavy, heavy weight of those empty eyes.

It's Bilbo's doctor that finally manages to draw his attention back to reality. His lips are tight, but his posture betrays his own sense of relief. He's flipping through the pages of his clipboard, listing things, explaining things, and Thorin is forced to stop him with a wave of his hand.

"Sorry, can you say that again? I'm finding it hard to concentrate."

The doctor's face relaxes a bit, and he places a friendly hand on Thorin's shoulder. "I know this is a hard time for you," he says, "but don't think of this as a loss. I'm sure Bilbo's memory will return in a couple of days, a week or two at most. In the meantime, go home, clean yourself up. We'll take good care of him."

Thorin gets to his feet. It was supposed to be an abrupt movement, one of concern and anguish, but instead it's somewhat panicked like a new father learning his firstborn has just been sent to the ICU. "Is there nothing I can do, to remind him of who he is? Tell him stories, show him photographs, something?"

"It's a thought," the doctor admits, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. "But it might be smarter to wait a little while before we try that. His memory is…very fragmented."

Kili is the first to pick up on that hint. "You asked him what year it was, didn't you?"

The doctor frowns, re-adjusting his glasses again. "I…uh, yes, yes I did."

There's another long silence. Neither brother wants to push this, their guarded expressions clearly fixed on anything but their uncle's face, but Thorin, in his sleep deprived state of mind, misses the signals. He doesn't care if the news is bad, he needs it.

"And what did he say? What was his answer?"

With a sigh, the doctor lowers his clipboard and tucks his pen behind his ear. "He thinks he's seventeen."

The conclusions Thorin jumps to are rash and disorganized, questions colliding in his mind to form sentences that are hardly coherent. Fili takes his arm, calming him somewhat, and Thorin finally admits to his need of sleep.

"Can I just say goodbye?" Thorin asks, rubbing the side of his head where the buzzing is starting to build again. "I won't ask him anything. I just need to know he'll be alright."

The doctor relents after a heartbeat, but he repeats Thorin's promise. "No questions."

Bilbo is sitting up when Thorin makes it back to his room, his face pointed towards the window and what of the greenery he can just make out through the glass. The treetops are speckled with the reds and oranges of autumn, the horizon glowing with a peachy shade—the colours dance across the white of Bilbo's bed sheets, the white of the walls of his room, the white of the curtains, the floor, the machines hooked up by his bedside. For a split second Thorin can see the two of them waking up together, those same colours rushing to life at the break of dawn, the softness of each shade tangling themselves in Bilbo's hair and dancing along his skin. The sheer magnitude of the loss, the loss of all the time they'd shared together, of the years they'd spent apart yearning for the other's touch, the nightmares wrought with pain neither could address, the depression they were both forced to hide behind broken smiles, all of that was just gone, like the final fingers of smoke escaping from a cottage chimney. Thorin can hardly find his footing, but when Bilbo turns his head, when their eyes meet one more time, Thorin knows.

The act is impulsive, and in retrospect, potentially disastrous, but Thorin doesn't have time to care about that now. He's closes the gap between them in four strides, the hope gripping his heart like a skydiver their parachute, and although he tells himself not to rush, not to push too far too fast, when they're so close now, their smells intermingling, breaths hot on each other's faces, Thorin loses the last hold on his self-control. He kisses Bilbo with everything he's got.

The passion is bittersweet, tainted like rainwater to a starving desert village, cursed like a mountain of gold to jungle explorers. Bilbo's lips fit against Thorin's like puzzle pieces, moving with the memories his body has not forgotten, reaching for peaks and depths they both know better than their own reflections. But the moment is just a moment, the shudder just before the flash of a camera, and then it's over.

Thorin realizes the gravity of what he's done and takes half a step back, but the movement is more of an unconscious stumble, because the rest of him is rooted in place, immobilized by hesitation. Bilbo's eyes are closed, his lips pursed with the last tender brush of the kiss, the smile he wears complimenting the sheepish blush to the edge of his cheeks. When he opens his eyes, his gaze is unfocused, lost in that middle limbo world of know and not knowing. Finally, he chuckles lightly to himself.

"That was very lovely," he murmurs, the blush deepening to reach the tips of his ears. "Although, if you wanted a date, you could have just said so."

Thorin can think of nothing to say in reply. With an off-handed comment about returning as soon as he can, he leaves the room, although the part of him he knows, the part of him that he and Bilbo had once so carefully built together, stays behind.


	4. Dark Waves Pull Me Under

Bilbo is aware of nothing but the soft beeping of the machine beside him, the darkness so thick in his eyes that even sunlight cannot pierce through. He may or may not be breathing, he's not sure, and he may or may not be dead. That line of thought should not be a comfort to him, but somehow, he can't help but hope his ordeal is over. He's suffered enough. It was time to move on.

/

He's woken by a doctor, his footsteps strikingly loud in the otherwise quiet room. The heartbeat monitor quickens for a moment, and then plateaus back to a normal pace. Bilbo raises his head a little, watching the movements of the doctor as he shuffles around, reading papers, prepping needles, pulling back the curtains that frame the floor-to-ceiling windows. Although Bilbo has no idea where he is, he senses he's been here before, maybe in a dream. But then the doctor speaks, and his voice alone is alien enough to Bilbo that he forgoes the notion of familiarity.

"Good morning, Mr. Baggins," he says, patting Bilbo's arm. "And how are you feeling today?"

Bilbo does not speak, merely lets his head rest heavily on the under-fluffed pillow, watching the material rise around him like he's sinking deeper and deeper into it by the moment. He can feel a great weight on his chest, a constricting pressure that threatens to crush him, but he accepts its presence there, even greets it with a small acknowledgement. The doctor repeats the question, but Bilbo answers to something completely different.

"So how did I do it this time?" He asks. He raises his arms and notes the bandages on either one, but something about it doesn't seem right. "Did I slash my wrists again? Pills, maybe? I can't even remember."

The doctor says nothing, and if anything, looks a little appalled. It's only a flicker of discretion, and then it's hidden behind the wire frames of his glasses, his composure as unreadable as his chicken scratch.

"What are you talking about, Mr. Baggins?"

Bilbo snorts this time, willing himself to feel agitated but managing only a moment of disinterest. "You could have just let me die this time, you know," he whispers. "I'm sure it would save you lots of effort."

All at once he feels exhausted, whatever life had temporarily sparked in his breast now diminished to ash and smoke. Sleep seems so peaceful, even if only for a while. He'll feel better when he wakes up. He almost always does.

The doctor clears his throat, but it does nothing to stop Bilbo from closing his eyes and filling his consciousness with the idea of solitude. Maybe the doctor says something, something about the date, but Bilbo doesn't respond.

He's not sure how long he stays like this, how much time has passed, but suddenly he senses wakefulness rushing back into the recesses of his eyes. He can hear a voice, just outside the door to his room, and it sounds a little pained, if not downright stressed.

"Did you have any knowledge of previous suicide attempts?" The man says. There's a silence, and Bilbo realizes the speaker must be on the phone. "I don't know, they're not in his papers, although they should be. No, this is clearly something that has happened more than once." Another pause. "His vitals are the same, he should be perfectly healthy, but…" There's a sigh now, and some shuffling. "Yes, of course, Mr. Oakenshield, he's receiving the best care we can provide. Come by whenever you have time." Then there's a beep, followed by the sound of a flip phone being shut, and then nothing at all.

/

When Bilbo wakes again, he's visited by another doctor. He has large brown eyes and a long face, high cheekbones accenting a smaller jaw. He's quieter than than the other, his shoes padded, his steps careful. When he realizes Bilbo is watching him he smiles gently, the curves brightening his face.

"Good afternoon Mr. Baggins," he says, adjusting the drip on Bilbo's IV. "I'll be taking over as your new doctor. Please, call me Lindir."

Bilbo isn't sure why that would be important, but he nods.

Lindir moves silently around to the other side of the bed, checking another machine, scribbling something down on a sheet of paper. His eyes are curious, gleaming with some hidden light, and he moves with a grace that defies his age and gender. The way he holds a pen between his long fingers, the careful way he studies everything he looks at, the precise way he shifts his weight from foot to foot, Bilbo finds it almost painful to watch.

"You remind me of someone," Bilbo admits, turning his head away from the doctor. "Someone I used to love."

Lindir hums under his breath, just a single note, enough to buffer his moment's pause. "Once you love someone, you never really stop."

Bilbo feels that constriction in his chest again, but tighter, deeper. It bites like frost, but the after-burn seers like hot tar. The memory that bubbles to the surface lasts shorter than a heartbeat, flashes like a solar flare, brilliant and then lost to the naked eye. A river. Someone dragging him to safety. An admission of love that went unreturned.

"You wouldn't understand," Bilbo replies, his voice broken like an out-of-tune piano.

Lindir turns then, tapping his pen against his lower lip, pensive as an owl. "Do you think of this love, before you cut? Are they the reason?"

Bilbo shudders. The truth of that statement cuts too close to his heart, and the accuracy of such a jab is unexpected. Of course he thinks of Thorin every time. Isn't he the reason he's in this mess?

Exhaustion again. It takes Bilbo by the throat, like it's trying to drown him, waiting for the last few slivers of breath to escape his lungs. "Maybe I'll jump next time," he says, although aloud or in his head he doesn't know. He imagines falling, the sensation of the weightlessness combating the feeling of crushing pressure. Yes, maybe we will jump next time.

Lindir stirs him some time later, but Bilbo hadn't fallen asleep. He appreciated the silence the new doctor offered, the quiet solace that came from being in the presence of someone who just innately knew there was no reason to speak. He wasn't used to that—normally he'd be restrained to his bed, doctors and nurses surrounding him all day long, asking him questions about why he had tried, if he thought he would try again, what they could do for him. But Bilbo didn't have much left to live for, if anything at all. His writing was worthless, he'd moved twice in the last three months, and the third year…the third year since he had last seen Thorin, it was coming up. Why had he lost his heart to a man like that? Why in the world did he have to have fallen in love with someone who would never return his feelings?

Biting his lip, Bilbo curses his prepubescent emotions. He should be better than this, bigger than this, but he couldn't deny the tiny nail that still stabbed into his gut every time he thought of the war. Every time he thought of a gun, or a battlefield, or blood or rain or night or fire. Everything seemed to remind him of what he'd lost, of his friends, his family, his home, his life. It was just a painful circle within interlocking circles, sealing him here at the bottom of this cavernous chasm, no way out but to dig all the deeper. What kind of life was this? What had happened to all his dreams, his goals?

Staring at the ceiling, Bilbo ran his eyes along the faint paint ridges that revealed the shaky hand of the renovation crew. It was true enough that in a couple of days he'd be out on the streets again, off to find another dead-end job to pay for the rent of an apartment he couldn't stand. And then what? He'd try to write again, try to find his inspiration, get carried away in something half-way good only to watch it fall apart…and then what? He'd be right back here, his world a sea of dark churning waves again, the anchor tied to his feet pulling him under once more. There was no escape.

Maybe his distress showed on his face, because Lindir gently patted his hand. Tilting his head, just a touch, like an inquisitive animal, the two exchanged silent cues, prays for help, promises for solutions, but in the end Bilbo just looked away. What could a doctor do for him? Anti-depressants only made things worse.

As it turns out, Lindir hadn't meant anything at all with his head tilt except to draw Bilbo's attention to the door, but his patient was already distracted by his own thoughts again, a pained line creasing his brow. With a small sigh, Lindir simply waved the guest inside, signaling for soothing, careful steps.

Bilbo hadn't heard his guest approach the door, but once inside the room, the shift in the air was impossible to miss. Ripples and aftershocks shock Bilbo's body, aged despite him not being aware of the time between where his mind was locked and where time had taken him. When he looked up and saw Thorin, there was no shock in his eyes, not even a flicker of surprise. Bilbo frowned.

"You're late, you know," he whispers, all at once oblivious to Lindir, bent over the small desk in the corner of the room. "You always…" but he trails off, suddenly unsure. "Will you stay a while? Please?"

Thorin holds his eyes, glacier grey just as Bilbo remembers, but he's aged quite a bit since the last time he'd been in the hospital. Why must his mind punish him this way? Wasn't it enough to know they'd had no future together than to pretend there'd been a chance?

"What have you been up to?" Bilbo asks Thorin, once he sits by his bedside. "I bet you went into some kind of business. You're wearing a suit, so, a lawyer maybe? Something steady for your boys?"

Something flashes in Thorin's eyes, maybe agreement, but the tight line of his lips is almost confusion.

"I guess it doesn't matter," Bilbo says, shifting in his sheets. "I'm going to try and sleep, okay? But, stay here, be here when I wake up, okay? Don't go."

Thorin does not respond.

As Bilbo begins to drift, Lindir returns to his side. For the first time real concern lines his face, and his left hand in clenched very tightly. "Bilbo," he says, "why are you talking to Thorin like that?"

Bilbo shrugs, or, at least, shrugs about as much as he can while lying in a bed. "So I talk to my imagination. Shoot me."

Lindir begins to speak, opens his mouth just a sliver, but then stops. He waits until Bilbo is asleep before he silently takes Thorin's hands and leads him from the room.


End file.
